


Love Me to Death

by AgentStannerShipper



Category: In the Flesh (TV), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post TGC, Sort Of, Zombies, but hes living dead so its fine, but its not creepy i promise, fixit fic, merlin is technically dead, references to necrophilia, references to various canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 11:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Merlin died in a jungle in Cambodia. Then the Rising happened.Or; fix-it via crossover, where the zombie apocalypse actually means a happily ever after.





	Love Me to Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lateagainsir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lateagainsir/gifts).



> For the very patient lateagainsir on tumblr who requested an In the Flesh au and then had to wait while the idea ran away with me. Hope the 14k is worth the wait.
> 
> Here there be In the Flesh spoilers. If things are unclear about the world or if I missed something important tagging, let me know. As usual, not Brit-picked, but a thousand thank-yous to the wonderful MHMoony who betaed this for me. ILY

“Harry,” Eggsy is out of breath when he runs into Harry’s office, “I just-“

“Galahad, I’ve told you, when we’re at work, please address me by my title.” Harry rubs his forehead, the familiar, throbbing migraine not helped by his protégé’s loud voice. No amount of aspirin ever seems to help, and anyway even in places like London they’re starting to run low on medical supplies, so aspirin is hard to come by. Better to not waste it.

“ _Harry_ ,” Eggsy repeats deliberately, “They’ve found a pattern.”

He pauses and looks up at the younger man, “What?”

“It was just on the news,” Eggsy says. “Didn’t you see-“ He stops, the ache of that phrase a far worse pain for both of them than the one in Harry’s head. Not that either of them have much time to dwell on that these days.

“No, I didn’t,” Harry says as a way to prompt Eggsy on.

Eggsy swallows hard, “Everyone who rose from the grave? They all died the same year. Last year.”

Harry’s heart stops. “Last year?” he repeats.

Eggsy nods, “D’you think…?”

Harry shudders at the thought, but he pulls his Arthur persona around him like a security blanket and says shakily, “I sincerely hope not. But Percival is in Scotland right now. I’ll…I’ll have him check. Have you looked for Roxy yet?”

Eggsy winces, “Been putting it off. Don’t want to have to shoot my best mate, you know?”

Harry knows. And he knows it’s selfish, sending Percival instead of checking the grave himself. But it was hard enough on Harry, losing Merlin like that. He doesn’t think he could pull the trigger on his partner. Not even if he was a walking corpse.

Still. Kingsman exists to protect the world, even if the usual threats are a bit more mundane than the living dead. “If she has risen, the longer we wait to find out, the more chance there is of her killing someone,” Harry points out as gently as he can manage. “Roxy wouldn’t want that, would she?”

Eggsy understands and nods, “No, Arthur. She wouldn’t.”

***

Everything is blurry, indistinct. Fragments of memories flicker through his head and disappear like lightning flashes. He learns to count the beats between them, like a thunderstorm, waiting for the snatches of clarity that burst through like glimpses of sunlight in the darkness.

He knows hunger. He knows pure, animalistic need. The taste of blood on his tongue. The scratch of fingernails peeling away at skin. Terrified screams of pain. But sometimes, just occasionally, he’ll get one of those flashes, and he’ll remember a smile. A laugh. Kisses under starlight.

And then the fragment is gone, and the animal takes over again.

***

Kingsman is in shambles, but it doesn’t matter because it’s _over_. The Rising and the subsequent war is officially over, so it doesn’t matter that Percival, Galahad, and Arthur are all that remain of the table. It doesn’t matter that without the guiding hand of Merlin, the tech and handling departments have fallen to pieces. It doesn’t matter that they might as well just be a tailoring shop now, because it’s _over_. London begins to rebuild itself, and around the world other cities do the same.

Harry chases down the victory with a bottle of Scotch and allows himself to cry.

***

“And what’s your name, love?”

“Um…” It’s still not all there, the memories. The drugs help, the synapses in his brain learning to connect again with chemical intervention, the old processes of life slowly creeping back into function. He’s been told his response is better than most, but that doesn’t mean everything has come back. “Hamish,” he says eventually.

“Last name?”

“I’m not sure.” He thinks on it another moment, and then says, “Hart, maybe?”

“Hamish Hart,” the nurse says slowly as she marks it down. She smiles up at him, “Thank you, love.” She glances towards the office door, “Next?”

***

“Do you think they got rounded up?” Eggsy asks, poking Harry with his foot from where he’s sprawled out on the other end of the couch. “Rox and Merlin, I mean.”

Harry does not want to have this conversation. Bad enough Eggsy invited himself over to “keep an eye on you, I know you ain’t sleeping.” Bad enough he, Tilde, and Alistair seem to take shifts in babysitting, and each brings with them their own special brand of hell for Harry. Tilde, who barely knew Merlin but tries to be sympathetic. Eggsy, who was trained by him and feels the loss of a mentor and father-figure. Alistair, who knew Merlin for years and lost his friend. They’re all suffering, Harry has to remind himself. Everyone is, these days. Everyone has lost someone.

“Let’s not allow ourselves foolish hope,” he says. Odds are, Roxy and Merlin got put down by one of the vigilante groups in the early days of the Rising. Harry isn’t going to allow himself to believe anything else. Merlin wouldn’t want him to dwell on false hope.

Eggsy looks like he wants to say something else, but Harry turns the volume on the television up a little higher and he gets the hint.

***

“Sorry, we can’t find anyone under the name Hamish Hart in our database,” the nurse tells him. “Are you sure that’s your name?”

Hamish shrugs, “I’m not sure of a lot of things.”

“Are the memories not coming back?”

They are. He knows Hamish isn’t his only name (Merlin). He knows he worked for an organization that was top secret (Kingsman). He knows he was truly, deeply in love with another man (Harry…Hart, he assumes). But he doesn’t know his own last name. He doesn’t know how he died, only that it was presumably in the line of duty and left him with his legs blown off (and why they’re sewed back on or how they manage to work at all is a medical mystery that none of the doctors can work out). He doesn’t know so many little details of his life, and it’s maddening, trying to grasp for them and coming up empty.

“They are,” he says. “Just not that one.”

“Alright. Are you experiencing any other side effects?”

Merlin nods. “The flashbacks…I get them sometimes.”

“That’s normal.”

“I know.”

“If you ever need help, we have staff in place who are trained for this.”

“I know.”

The nurse seems to understand that he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, because she smiles politely at him, “Alright, Hamish. Next?”

***

“Roxy’s alive,” Alistair says. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. Harry would say something to his friend about taking better care of himself, but he’s not in a position to judge.

Instead, Harry lets him in, “No, she’s not.”

Alistair waves him off as he steps over the threshold, “Fine, she’s suffering from Partially Deceased Syndrome, and she’s being treated at one of the centres. The point is, _she’s back_.”

“I’m happy for you,” Harry tells him. And he is, even if it’s a bittersweet happiness. Alistair has lost enough of his family. “When are they releasing her?”

“If she keeps making progress, in a few months,” Alistair says.

“That’s good,” Harry murmurs. “That’s good.”

There’s still no word from any of the centres about a Scotsman with stitched-together legs. Merlin rose. Harry knows this. But he also knows that it’s far more likely that Merlin took a headshot from a scared civilian than he was rounded up and taken in for treatment. Otherwise Harry would have heard something by now.

***

“Merlin? Is that you?”

Hamish responds instinctively to the name, turning to see a young woman with long brown hair blinking at him, her pale grey eyes wide with surprise. It takes him a moment to grasp her name, but he smiles when he catches a hold of it, “Roxy. It’s good to see you.”

She approaches him, looking him up and down, taking in his matching pallor, “What happened?”

“I died.”

“I can see that. No, I mean, what happened to…” she trails off, and then finishes, “the shop?”

Hamish glances around. There are guards watching. “Not here.”

She nods, “There’s a little space in the garden. I’ll meet you there after dark.” And then she slips away.

He manages to duck past the guards when the sun goes down, nearly-forgotten stealth training kicking in as he makes his way down to the garden. Roxy is waiting for him, and she pulls him into a hug. He hugs back, tightly. He can’t remember the last time he’s had proper human contact. No one, not even the doctors, want to touch PDS sufferers. He can feel their hands, sort of, when they give him his daily shot. They use as little contact as possible. It feels so good just to _hug_ someone again, even if the sensation is muted by his damaged nerve-endings.

Roxy pulls away, “So what happened? I was at Kingsman…”

“Someone blew up the building.”

Roxy rolls her eyes and gestures to the burn scars down her neck, “Yes, I know that. But _what happened_?”

So Merlin tells her about Poppy and going in to save the world, about Harry being alive and Statesman and dying on a landmine. “I rose in Scotland,” he says. “Harry and I had talked about where I’d want to be buried. I guess he remembered.”

“So, obviously they saved the world,” Roxy says. “I mean, everything seems normal.”

“Apart from the dead rising, you mean,” Merlin says dryly.

She shoves him playfully, and were he still her boss, he wouldn’t have stood for it, but as it is he’s not and it feels good to have someone he considers a friend joking around with him. “Yes,” she says, “apart from that.”

***

“Yes, I understand,” Harry says numbly. “Thank you.” He listens to the beep as they hang up, unable to move, unable to comprehend what he’s just heard. He feels the beginnings of another migraine coming on. Abruptly, his knees give out and he sits down hard on the sofa, head in his hands.

“Harry?” Eggsy asks as he shuts the front door behind him with his foot, balancing grocery bags in his arms. “Everything okay?”

“They…”

Eggsy sets the bag down and comes over to crouch beside him on the floor in front of the sofa, “What happened?”

“They found Merlin.”

“ _What_?”

“He’s…he’s in the same treatment facility as Roxy. They need me to come see him. It’s part of securing his release.” Harry’s tempted to pinch himself. It feels surreal, like some sort of dream. He can’t tell if it’s a good one or a nightmare.

“That’s great, though, innit?” Eggsy grins. “Merlin’s…well, not alive, but PDS ain’t bad.”

“Eggsy, we _killed_ PDS sufferers.”

“Yeah, when they was rabid. Look, you think Merlin didn’t do some things he’ll regret in his rabid state?” Eggsy puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder, “You love him, right?”

Harry scoffs, “Of course I love him. How could you even ask me that?”

“Then go see him,” Eggsy says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “He’s not dead, Harry. You’ll be able to see him, talk to him.”

Hesitantly, Harry puts voice to the fear that has plagued him since the moment Merlin stepped off that land mine, “And what if…what if he blames me, for what happened to him?”

“Why would he?”

“Because I should have done better!” Harry says. “He shouldn’t have been in the field in the first place, but I insisted he come. It’s my fault he died.”

“No, it isn’t,” Eggsy says. “Merlin made his choice, and he’s not going to blame you for it.”

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Harry murmurs. He wants to believe Eggsy, but he can’t. Not unless the words come from Merlin himself.

Eggsy crosses his arms, “Yeah, we will.”

***

It doesn’t look right, the coverup. At a glance, it looks fine, but any longer than that and it’s obvious he’s wearing it. And he can’t get the shading right; he looks much tanner than he had in life, locked away from the sun in his labs.

He’d hesitated when they’d asked what colour to make his contacts. Harry had always teased him about his eyes.

“They’re like something out of a trashy romance novel,” he’d said. “Such gorgeous, colour-changing eyes, blue and green and brown and grey.”

The memory makes him smile. He’d ended up with the blue contacts, and they feel funny in his eyes.

He’s led out to the visitor’s area, an ache churning in the pit of his stomach. Pain and touch may not really register with him anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things, and all he feels right now is dread. Because he’s going to see Harry today. And that means Harry knows.

He’s sitting on one of the benches, hands clasped on the table in front of him, studying the wood. Merlin glances back at the guards, who nod at him, and then he carefully takes a seat across from Harry. His husband (are they still married? They’d had a wedding ceremony, not legal of course, but ‘until death do us part’ has a slightly different meaning in the wake of the Rising) doesn’t look up.

“Harry?” Merlin asks softly.

Harry takes in one shuddering breath, and lifts his head.

Merlin’s heart catches and it’s a bittersweet, because Harry is just as beautiful as he remembers, and Merlin is decidedly not.

“Hamish.” Harry’s voice is barely above a whisper.

Merlin nods. “Or you can still call me Merlin, if you like.” It might have been his title, but he’s gone by it so long that it feels more like his name. But he adds, “I’m not sure-“ He cuts himself off, looks towards the guards again, but they aren’t paying attention. He clears his throat softly, “I’m not sure how the business is doing without me, and I assume my position has been transferred?”

“There…is no real business,” Harry says. “And there’s no Merlin.”

“Title died with me, then?”

Harry winces, and Merlin abruptly looks away. _Shit_. The doctors say he’s been making these jokes as a way to cope – Merlin isn’t sure what they mean by jokes because he’s being completely serious - but the last thing he needs to do is remind Harry of the fact that he’s dead. Or a _Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer_. What a load of crap.

“Whole organization died without you, really,” Harry says. “We barely had time to get back on our feet after Poppy before the Rising, and decimated the way we were we didn’t stand a chance. We’re working on rebuilding, with Statesman’s help, but it’s a very slow process.”

“Eggsy? Alistair?”

“Alive, thank god.”

“Good,” Merlin nods. “That’s good.” He still has the flashbacks on occasion, usually right after his dose of neurotriptaline, when the chemicals are first thrumming through his body, but he knows he doesn’t remember everyone he’s killed. He’d worried that somehow his friends had found their way onto that list.

Merlin knows Harry, so he knows that when Harry makes that face, it means he wants to say something but he’s not sure he should. “Go on,” Merlin tells him. “What is it?”

“Are you…” Harry pauses. “You do want to come home with me, don’t you?”

Merlin frowns. He’s not sure he understands the question. “Of course I want to come home with you,” he says. “They won’t let me out yet.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Harry sighs. “Merlin, I got you killed.”

“What? No, you didn’t.”

“I was the one who insisted you-“

“Harry, you asked me along. I could have waited in the plane. Going out in the field was my choice. This is not on you.” He reaches out to take Harry’s hand, and then draws back. His skin is clammy and cold. Harry isn’t going to want to touch him.

“You really don’t blame me?” Harry asks softly.

Merlin rolls his eyes, “Of course I don’t, you idiot. I love you, and I know you would never do anything to hurt me intentionally.”

“You love me?”

Merlin suddenly wants to take the words back. Harry’s talking to him, and Merlin thought that meant it was okay, that they’re still a couple, still in love. But maybe he’s wrong. “Is that alright?” he asks carefully.

Harry’s dour expression suddenly breaks into a relieved smile, and before Hamish can draw away Harry is taking his hand, squeezing it tightly, and Merlin can almost feel the warmth of his touch in the earnestness of the gesture. “It’s perfect,” Harry says. “I love you too.”

“You do?”

“You’re my husband,” Harry says softly. “I wasn’t going to throw away thirty years just because you’d…” He looks down at where their hands are joined. “Because you’d died,” he finishes.

“I always hoped that if I went first, you’d move on.”

“And I might have, but you were hardly dead a year, and what with the Rising I didn’t really have a chance to mourn you, much less go about forming romantic attachments.

Merlin strokes his thumb over the back of Harry’s fingers, and while he can’t quite feel it properly, the motion is familiar enough that his brain can extrapolate the sensation. “Can I ask a question?”

“You can ask anything you want, darling.” There’s a hesitancy in Harry’s voice, and Merlin thinks he knows why.

He doesn’t ask that question. They both know the answer. Instead, he asks, “What happened to my legs?”

“Oh, that.” Harry look embarrassed, his cheeks flushing prettily. “I’m afraid that was my doing. A brief moment of insanity. No one could convince me otherwise. I…I wanted you to be buried whole. I’m not sure why it was so important to me.”

“I’m glad you did. I’d probably be properly dead if I hadn’t been able to walk.”

“How does that work?”

Merlin shrugs, “Not a clue. I’m a medical miracle.”

“You’ve always been a miracle to me.”

Merlin points at him, “Don’t go getting sappy on me, Harry Hart.”

Harry pulls his mock-offended face, “I would never!” He ruins it by grinning, and Merlin smiles too.

“You look good,” Harry says quietly after a minute.

“It’s the makeup.”

Harry shakes his head, “I’m not talking about that. I’m not sure the grey eyes and pale skin would even bother me that much. God knows you were pasty enough in life. No, I mean…it’s good to see you smiling. To see you…being. Watching you in your coffin…you were so still. You were always fidgeting with something or other in life, and in death you were just…” Harry shakes his head, “It felt wrong.”

Merlin gives Harry’s hand a squeeze, “I’m here.”

“Time’s up,” one of the guards calls over to them.

Harry looks up, alarmed, “No! We’ve barely had any time-“

The other guard grabs Merlin’s shoulder and forces him to his feet, and Merlin goes willingly, letting go of Harry’s hand even though he wants nothing more to cling to his husband. He’s so close to freedom, and he can’t afford to be put on the non-compliance list. Harry stares at him, wide-eyed and panicked. “It’s okay, Harry,” Merlin tries to reassure him. “I’ll be home before you know it. I promise.”

“I love you!” Harry calls after him, even as the guards force Merlin away from the table.

“I love you too,” he calls back. He tries to twist, get one last look, but they aren’t having any of it, and he’s physically dragged away from Harry all over again.

***

Harry bounces on his heels, jittery for a reason he can’t explain. Well, perhaps he can explain it. Merlin is coming home with him today.

The walls of the centre are papered with those posters, the one of a smiling PDS sufferer that tell everyone that they too can be “normal” again. The same picture had been on that stupid pamphlet he’d been given to read. He had read it, of course, front-to-back, but there’s so little legitimate information in them. Alistair had nudged him towards a list of websites he’d found in preparation for Roxy’s return, created by the families and loved ones of PDS sufferers, and those had been a great deal more help. He thinks he’s prepared. Living with Merlin when they were both, well, living had been one thing. Living with Merlin when he’s undead will be a horse of a slightly different, greyish colour, and Harry wants to make the transition as smooth on both of them as possible.

Having Merlin tell him that it wasn’t his fault hasn’t entirely relieved the guilt eating a hole in Harry’s stomach, but it’s certainly helped. He feels lighter than he has in ages.

The door opens, and Harry straightens his shoulders. Merlin walks through it, dressed in the same outfit he’d been buried in, except under the kilt he’s wearing the same baggy, unflattering hospital trousers Harry saw him in last time. He’s clutching a bag in his hands, fidgeting with it where his fingers are curled around the plastic, and Harry can’t help but smile at the familiar gesture. Merlin approaches him, looking shyly up at Harry from under his eyelashes, and never in a million years would Harry have believed his husband could appear _shorter_ than him – they’re the same height, but Merlin has a presence that makes him feel taller, larger than life. It reminds him sharply that this is unfamiliar territory for the both of them. He rectifies the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach by dragging Merlin in for a tight hug.

Merlin returns it, gripping so hard Harry’s almost afraid it will cut off his airway. When he relaxes his hold, he doesn’t go far, still nose-to-nose with Harry. Harry rubs their noses together and then asks, “May I kiss you?” Normally he wouldn’t ask, but they’ve been apart for nearly five years now, not counting their very brief reintroduction in the States. He’s not sure how much he’s allowed to touch.

“If you like,” Merlin says. “I am your husband, after all.”

Pleased with that answer, Harry slides his hand up to cup the back of Merlin’s neck, and he presses a soft kiss to his lips. Merlin gasps and shudders into it, and Harry pulls away quickly, “What’s wrong? I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

Merlin laughs, “You haven’t hurt me.” He tilts his head, “How much do you know about PDS?”

“I’ve been…looking into it a bit,” Harry says. Merlin lifts his eyebrow, and Harry admits, “Alright, a lot.”

“So you know my nerves are still a bit messed up. I don’t feel things properly. It’s more pressure, general sensation than temperature or texture.”

“Right.”

Merlin reaches up and rubs his fingers gently over his lips. “I…it must be because the nerve endings in the mouth tend to be more sensitive than most. You…you felt warm.”

“Is that good?” Harry asks.

Merlin nods, “Very good. Do it again? Just to be sure.” He smirks.

“Cheeky,” Harry tells him, and kisses him again, properly this time. When they finally break apart, he realizes that people are staring, and he’s not sure if it’s because they’re both men or because they know Merlin is undead. It’ll be an interesting new facet in their relationship, Harry thinks; just when people are starting to get over their homophobia (not to mention Harry’s parents’ disdain for the fact that Merlin is Scottish), new issues have begun cropping up with the idea of living-undead relationships.

But Harry has never given a shit what other people think of him, so he gives the watchers a smile and threads his fingers through Merlin’s, “Come on. Let’s go home.”

It’s not until he gets into the car, one of the ones that had survived the Kingsman complex’s collapse, and checks the mirrors that he realizes he has coverup smeared across his face. He wipes at it with his thumb and only succeeds in smudging it further. From the passenger seat, Merlin chuckles.

“Do you have-?”

Merlin passes him a packet of makeup remover wipes, and Harry cleans his face, then starts the car, “That’s going to be a bit inconvenient.”

“You don’t have to kiss me.”

Harry scoffs at the idea, “Of course I’m going to kiss you.” He pulls away from the centre. “Alistair says Roxy comes home tomorrow.”

Merlin nods, “That’s what she told me. She’s very excited about it. Can’t wait to see Eggsy and Tilde again.”

“So she’s doing alright?”

“Aye. She’s adapted remarkably well.”

“And you?”

“I’m…managing it.”

Harry glances over at him, and Merlin is studying his knees. The coverup around his lips is patchy from kissing Harry, giving him a glimpse of what Merlin’s skin really looks like under all the makeup. “I thought it was traditional not to wear anything under a kilt,” he says carefully. Merlin normally adheres very strictly to tradition in this regard.

Merlin picks at the fabric. “The scars…” he says slowly. “They’re very obvious.”

Harry wishes he wasn’t driving so he could look at Merlin properly. He settles for the little side-glances whenever he doesn’t need to have his eyes fixed on the road. “You know I don’t care about that, right?” he asks. “For Christ’s sake, I’m missing an eye, darling.”

“And you wear those glasses to hide it,” Merlin says. “Let me have this, Harry. Please?”

There really isn’t any argument for it, so Harry nods, “Alright.”

The house Harry currently lives in is a Kingsman safehouse. It doesn’t really feel like home; his butterflies and coins and Mr. Pickle were all destroyed, and he can’t bring himself to decorate here. The closest thing he has to a homey touch is the photo of him and Merlin he keeps on the nightstand.

He parks in the street and Merlin slides out, looking up at it like he isn’t fully comprehending what he’s seeing. “Right,” he says.

“What?”

Merlin shakes his head, “I knew our home was gone, but it didn’t really register until now.”

Harry wraps an arm around his shoulders, giving him a little half-hug. “Come on,” he says. “I’d give you the tour, but I’m assuming you know the layout.”

“Standard Kingsman safehouse? Yes, I’m familiar.” Still, once they’re inside, Merlin pokes around, exploring the territory. It isn’t lost on Harry that the bag he’s holding goes on the bed in the spare room, not the one that Harry clearly occupies.

He doesn’t broach the subject until dinner. Merlin can’t eat anymore, or at least not without being violently ill, but Harry still needs to, so Merlin settles at the table while Harry cooks, watching him work, and he stays when Harry sits down to eat.

Between bites, Harry finally asks, “Are you planning on staying in the spare room? I noticed you left your things there.”

Merlin shrugs, “If that’s alright with you?”

Harry does his best not to be hurt by the suggestion, but his stomach still twists unpleasantly on receiving the next bite of his dinner. He stabs the fork sharply down, but his voice is calm when he says, “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

He knows Merlin is studying him; he can feel the weight of his husband’s gaze. Eventually, Merlin says, “It’s not about you, Harry.”

Harry tilts his head in confusion, and Merlin clarifies, “My sleeping in the other room. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s…it’s to do with me.”

“Oh,” Harry says, because he’s not sure what else there is to say.

They finish dinner in silence.

***

Merlin grips the sink. He knows, practically, that the tiles are probably cold under his bare feet and the porcelain under his fingers. He also knows he has to look up at some point.

Slowly, he lifts his head.

He’s scrubbed away the coverup and taken out his contacts. As much as he wants to leave it all on, Harry would throw a fit if he found out, and Merlin doesn’t want to disappoint him. So he’s faced with his own reflection, greying skin pale as death, unearthly white-grey irises blinking back at him. His stomach churns, and he looks away again, shuddering.

He’d almost gotten used to the sight at the treatment centre, but it’s different here. Here he’s not surrounded by other PDS sufferers who look like him. He’s here with Harry, his very much alive husband, who still looks stunning even with the scarred eye socket.

Merlin is not about to let his husband see him like this.

He presses his ear to the door, making sure Harry has already retired to his room, before slipping down the hallway into the guest bedroom. Harry had bought him some new clothes in preparation for his arrival, and at Merlin’s request he’d moved them from his closet to the one in here. He’d also promised to take Merlin out shopping for the rest. “I’m fairly confident I know your tastes, but I thought you might like to do something…domestic.” They’ve never been an especially domestic couple, but it’s a nice gesture.

Merlin curls up on the bed, tucking himself under the covers out of habit rather than because he’s cold. He closes his eyes and allows sleep wash over him. The sooner it takes him, the sooner he can wake up from his nightmares.

***

Harry wakes to the sound of soft whimpering, too subtle for most people to pick out, but loud enough that it kicks his spy training into high gear, assessing the potential threat before he’s even fully awake. When his conscious brain catches up, he squints at the alarm clock, telling him that it’s only just passing two in the morning.

Slowly, he stumbles out of bed, tracking the source of the noise to Merlin’s room. Harry hesitates outside the closed door, and knocks gently, “Merlin? Darling?”

There’s no response, save for the continued whimpering. Harry reaches for the doorknob, but before he turns it, he stops himself. Merlin is sleeping alone for a reason. Harry suspects the cause has something to do with Merlin’s appearance, but he hasn’t asked, and his husband hasn’t admitted to anything on his own. Regardless of the reason, Harry isn’t sure he feels comfortable invading Merlin’s space without permission.

He slides down the door, pressing his back against it and wrapping his arms around his knees. He stays that way until the whimpering ceases, and then rises stiffly and returns to his bed.

The alarm clock reads five-fifty-three.

***

Harry looks up when Merlin makes his way into the kitchen. He looks a bit guilty, “I’m sorry, I would have waited for you for breakfast, but seeing as you can’t eat I didn’t think you’d mind. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“It’s fine,” Merlin says. He doesn’t care about that. He fidgets slightly, and then places the neurotriptaline injector on the table. Harry looks at it, and then back up at Merlin. He sets down his fork. Merlin can’t quite manage to meet his eyes when he says, “I tried to do it myself, but I can’t get the angle right on my own.”

“Do you want me to do it?”

Merlin nods, “Maybe not in here, though.”

They end up on the sofa in the living room, Merlin leaning forward as Harry shifts his shirt back to reveal the back of his neck. He knows what the hole looks like - an ugly little black circle in his spine – and he doesn’t like the idea of Harry seeing it, but he can’t give himself the shot and the idea of not taking it and going rabid is a lot worse than showing Harry this one little part of himself.

Harry takes his time lining up the injection. Part of Merlin wishes he would hurry up and get it over with, tense as he is, but he’s grateful for his husband’s concern. Then Harry pulls the trigger, and for a moment it’s fine, the subtle sting hardly registering as the chemicals flood into Merlin’s system.

Then everything is black and blurry, shrill screaming, flashes of colour. Blood is spilling out over his hands as he tears into flesh, scrabbling at hard bone shielding what he really wants. What he needs. He chokes on the scent of decay and the taste of grey matter sliding down his throat and-

“Darling, darling, it’s alright, it’s okay.”

Harry…Harry is holding him. Suddenly, Merlin is aware that he’s thrashing, or trying to, his husband’s strong arms keeping him from lashing out. “It’s alright,” Harry soothes. “You’re alright. It’s just a memory.”

Gradually, the trembling stops, but the phantom slip of blood, on his hands, his lips, his tongue, lingers in the back of his mind. Harry releases his grip but doesn’t let go entirely, still hugging Merlin close. “Do you get flashbacks often, when you take the drugs?” he asks.

“Often enough.”

“Is there anything-“

“If it’s all the same to you, Harry,” Merlin interrupts, “I’d rather not talk about it.”

***

“Ready to go out?” Harry asks. He’d called in to tell Alistair he wouldn’t make it to the office today. Given that Alistair is going to pick up Roxy, it’s just Eggsy holding down the fort with the handful of staff they have left. Still, Harry trusts the younger man to keep everything in check, and he doesn’t want to leave Merlin alone today. Between the nightmare last night, the flashback this morning, and the overall sense of unease that Harry can practically feel rolling off Merlin, he doesn’t want to abandon his partner.

Merlin is bundled up, perhaps a bit more than strictly necessary, especially given that he can’t feel the cold, but Harry doesn’t question him on it. He does say, “I’m not sure the extra layer of coverup was necessary, darling. You’re dangerously close to turning orange.”

Merlin can’t blush properly – lack of blood flow and all – but he does look a tiny bit embarrassed. “I’d rather look like I had a mishap with spray tan than frighten someone.”

“You might frighten them away from the tanning beds,” Harry says dryly, but he gestures to the front door. “Shall we?”

This isn’t something they really did before. They were married to the job as much as each other, so domestic chores tended to be a one-person event, one of them slipping away to do the shopping or pick up a new shirt or what have you whenever they had a spare moment.

Harry lingers behind Merlin, watching him pick out clothes with practised precision. He keeps looking over his shoulder, tense like he’s expecting to be attacked, and Harry’s heart aches a bit because he hasn’t seen Merlin like this since the early nineties, when Merlin had finally begun to come to terms with showing affection to Harry in public.

“Everything alright, darling?” he asks, casually as he can manage.

“Fine,” Merlin responds.

Harry doesn’t believe him.

***

“Merlin!” Eggsy is all smiles as he bounces across the threshold. Merlin stiffens at the abrupt hug, and then relaxes into the touch, squeezing Eggsy back.

“I missed you too, lad,” he says.

Eggsy lets him go and jabs a finger at his chest, “You’re not allowed to die again, d’you understand? This one was a right mess.” He jerks his thumb towards Harry, who looks caught between outrage and agreement.

Merlin manages a smile, “No plans to do that anytime soon, trust me.”

“Brilliant,” Eggsy says. “You met Tilde, right?”

She gives him a sweet smile, “Hello again, Merlin.”

“Hello, princess.”

She clicks her tongue, “I’ve told you, you don’t have to call me that.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tilde,” Harry says, wrapping his arm around Merlin’s shoulders. He’s taken to doing that a lot lately. “He calls me that as well. Although, usually it’s only when I’m being naughty.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, “I call you a princess when you’re acting like the spoiled brat you are.”

“Still,” Harry winks at Tilde, “it’s a step up from ‘drama queen.’”

She giggles, and Harry takes her arm and ushers her into the living room.

Eggsy stays behind with Merlin, studying him. After a moment, Merlin can’t take it anymore, “Out with it, lad.”

“You really have no idea how hard this has been on Harry.”

Merlin frowns, and Eggsy says, “He was a complete mess after you died. I thought you were bad after V-Day, but this…Harry totally collapsed. Stopped sleeping, barely ate. And then with the Rising…I could tell he wanted you to be back, but he wouldn’t let himself consider it, and anyway we spent so much time…” He trails off and rubs the back of his neck, “well, you know.”

“Killing rotters?” Harry still hasn’t mentioned it, but Merlin knows that’s a conversation they’ll probably have to have.

Eggsy winces, “You shouldn’t use that word. It ain’t like you’re really dead.”

Merlin shrugs. He doesn’t want to get into this debate. “You spent so much time putting down rabid PDS sufferers?” he prompts.

“Right,” Eggsy says, “and Harry, he just threw himself into it. And after, Percy and Tilde and I all pitched in, looking after him, but sometimes it was like he was dead himself, you know? Like he’d just completely given up on living.”

Merlin looks away, the familiar ball of guilt swelling in his stomach. “Not that I’m blaming you,” Eggsy says quickly. “I get it, yeah? You sacrificed yourself for us. I’d be a goner if it weren’t for you. Just…I thought you should know.” Eggsy glances towards the living room, “I mean, I think this is the first time I’ve seen him smile in _years_.”

As if on cue, the sound of laughter bubbles out of the living room, Tilde’s higher giggle and Harry’s deeper chuckle. Eggsy nudges him, “Why don’t we join them, yeah?”

Merlin nods.

After their guests leave, Harry flicks the television on, but Merlin stands. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”

Harry frowns at him, glancing back and forth between Merlin and the reruns scrolling across the screen. “But you love…” he blinks, like he’s blanking on the name, and hesitantly continues, “Space Trek? No! Star Trek!” He looks pleased with himself for a moment, but then it passes and concern flickers across his face again, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry mutes the television and pats the couch next to him. Merlin remains standing, and Harry sighs, “You’ve been…different, since you came back.”

“Oh, really?” Of course he’s different. He died.

“There’s no need for sarcasm right now,” Harry says crossly, “I’m trying to be serious.”

Merlin crosses his arms, “Are we really going to talk about this right now?”

“When would you like to talk about it?”

“Does never sound good to you?”

“Dammit, Hamish!” Harry stands up, and Merlin blinks, because Harry must be serious if he’s pulling the ‘real name’ card. “I’ve done my best to give you space and be understanding, but we didn’t make it through thirty years as a couple by not talking to each other!”

“We _didn’t_ make it through thirty years as a couple,” Merlin shoots back instinctively. “You got shot in Kentucky and didn’t remember me for two years while I thought you were dead, and then I stepped on a fucking landmine and got blown up.”

“Are you really debating semantics with me right now?”

Merlin takes a step back and holds up his hands. “I’m going to bed,” he says. “I’m not going to argue with you tonight.”

Harry catches his arm before he can go. “When? We have to have this conversation sometime, darling. And you know I hate going to bed angry. Especially since you won’t sleep with me.”

Merlin winces, and Harry says sharply, “I don’t mean having sex, Merlin. I mean actual sleep. I hate that you’re staying in the guest room when I’m right there. Especially because I know you’ve been having nightmares.”

“I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

“Why not?” Harry lifts his chin and narrows his eyes.

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

“Yes.”

Merlin sighs, “Because I’m fucking disgusting to look at and I don’t want you to have to see me and remember that I’m dead. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Of course it’s not what I want to hear, but it’s what I expected you to say. Darling, do you really think I care about how you look?”

“In a word? Yes.”

Hurt flashes across Harry’s face, and Merlin sighs, “I don’t think…I’m not saying you’re shallow, Harry. But I died. And I know how much that hurt you. I don’t want to keep reminding you of it.”

Harry groans in frustration, “I understand, alright? You died. And yes, I fell to pieces. But you’re back now. I have you back but you’re not…you won’t let me _be_ with you. You keep pulling away. I know we both did things during the Rising that are going to haunt us, and god knows none of this has been easy on either of us, but that doesn’t matter to me because I have you. Or I would, if you’d let me in.”

Merlin wants to. He feels like he did in the early days of their relationship; a terrified boy from Scotland in unfamiliar territory on pretty much all counts, petrified at the idea of loving another man and unwilling to let Harry too close in fear that he wouldn’t like what he saw. “I can’t,” he says softly.

“Darling…”

“I want to, Harry, but I _can’t_.” He clamps down on the muscles in his body, making every effort to stop his shoulders from shaking, his lip from quivering, because he knows if he starts crying he won’t be able to stop.

Harry relents, physically taking a step back. “Alright,” he says. “Not everything, not right now. But…please don’t keep me in the dark about everything, darling. I’m not saying you have to tell me everything, but…”

Merlin manages a small smile, “I know. I’ll try.” He hesitates, and then moves forward, pressing a brief kiss to Harry’s cheek, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Merlin. I love you.”

The pain in Harry’s eyes is too much for Merlin to bear, so he doesn’t look when he responds, “I love you too.”

***

Harry gives up on sleeping after the second hour of staring at the ceiling slips by. He sits up in bed and turns on the bedside lamp. He locates his laptop in the nightstand drawer and opens it up. He checks his email: there are a few from the treatment centre, reminding him to pick up more neurotriptaline for Merlin soon and to schedule some follow-up appointments to ensure he’s adjusting to being home again. Harry ignores them. There are also a few emails from Statesman: schematics, check-ins, and the like. It’s strange. Kingsman was once his whole life, but now his connection to it feels more distant. He still loves it, of course, but his job doesn’t feel quite as important as the man he loves. The man currently sleeping in the guest bedroom because he thinks his condition means Harry won’t love him anymore.

Harry ignores the Statesman emails too and pulls open a new webpage. He hesitates a long time, trying to figure out how to phrase it, before he types anything into the search bar. _How do I show my husband with PDS that I still love him?_ feels a bit depressing to write, but Harry doesn’t want to dwell on that.

The links it turns up also aren’t the most helpful. The first one or two seem to be legitimate, generic couples counselling crap that Harry suspects, when he skims the sites, won’t do him or Merlin any good. As for the rest…

Harry clicks on one of the video links hesitantly, and the video that pops up makes him hit the mute button immediately. He pauses it, biting his lip. While his sex drive isn’t what it was when he was in his twenties, it also hasn’t disappeared entirely, and it’s been a few years since he last had sex. Having his husband home, tantalizingly close but without Harry being allowed to really touch him, has stirred up those feelings again.

He knows, just by the fact that Merlin doesn’t even want to innocently share a bed with him, that his husband probably isn’t interested in sex. Actually, Harry’s not even certain Merlin can have sex anymore. He knows that there are rumours of living men who get off on having sex with women with PDS, but he’s not sure the reverse is even possible. The lack of blood flow means that Merlin won’t actually be able to get an erection, and with his nerve endings being affected, most other forms of sex probably won’t have the same effect. None of the websites Harry had looked at had mentioned sex at all, and he feels a little bit dirty (and not in a good way) just thinking about it.

He looks back to his laptop screen. The video is frozen on a shirtless man with PDS (or possibly an actor in grey makeup) with a woman on her knees between his thighs. Harry hesitates, and then turns the volume down and hits play again.

“You’re so cold,” the woman breathes. She rubs her against the man’s crotch. “I want to suck your cold, dead cock.”

Harry closes the tab quickly, wrinkling his nose. He feels vaguely sick. Porn dialogue has never really done anything for him, but that was a distinctive turn off. Still, it has cleared one thing up for him.

He still wants to have sex with his husband. Yes, his condition might make it difficult, but Harry’s always been experimental in bed. But it is very much his husband that Harry wants to have sex with. Not his dead husband. Not his husband who suffers from PDS. Just his husband. So it’s not a new fetish. That knowledge makes him feel a little bit better about all this. He’s willing to wait as long as Merlin needs to feel comfortable.

He puts the laptop back in the nightstand and turns off the light.

***

“Good morning!” Roxy says cheerfully.

Merlin stares at her, his hand still on the door handle, blinking at the young woman on his doorstep. “You aren’t wearing…”

She grins, grey eyes sparkling, “I thought about it, but it’s so much effort to put it all on, you know? And we’re in London. Compared to what I hear about some places out in the country, people don’t care if I don’t wear it. So why bother?” She holds out her hand, “Come on! We’re going out?”

“Why?”

“ _Because_ ,” she says, “Eggsy says that Harry says you haven’t left the house without him since you got back. You know it’s not good to lock yourself from everything, right? You can still be a good house-husband for Harry and go out and have a bit of fun.”

“First of all,” Merlin says, “I’m going to act like you didn’t just call me Harry’s _house-husband_. Second of all, I’m fine. I don’t want to go out.”

Roxy bats her eyelashes at him, “But who’s going to protect me from the evil, no-good living people who are terrified of my pale, dead skin and want to attack me?”

“I imagine you’ll do a satisfactory job protecting yourself. I did train you, after all.”

“Mer- _lin_ ,” Roxy whines. “Please? I told Harry I’d at least try to get you out of the house. He’s really worried about you.” She looks at him pleadingly.

He sighs, “Fine.”

She smiles, “Great!”

“I think I was a little too thorough with your negotiation skills.”

“You can’t take all the credit,” she tells him cheerfully. “Alistair was very strict. I had to learn how to get what I wanted from him _somehow_.”

“Meaning you asked James.”

She shrugs, “It worked, didn’t it?” She shifts, looking uncomfortable for the first time.

“What’s wrong?” Merlin asks.

She sighs, “James…I know Alistair loves me. I mean, he practically raised me. But I know part of him wishes that the Rising had revived people from the year James died. And I know he feels guilty for wanting that, for wanting his husband back instead of me, because I know he wants both of us back, but it just makes me feel guilty because I came back and he didn’t, you know?”

Merlin reaches out and pulls her in for a hug. “You shouldn’t feel guilty,” he says. “It’s not our fault that we rose.”

“I know.”

Merlin does the only thing he can think of to wipe that forlorn look off her face. He steps over the threshold and locks the door behind him. “So. Where are we going?”

Roxy smiles slightly and links her arm with his, an almost comical gesture considering their height difference. “I don’t know,” she says. “I haven’t decided yet.”

They end up down by the park where Merlin used to go running in the morning. It’s mostly quiet: a few joggers, a couple of children throwing breadcrumbs to the ducks while their caretakers chat, old men and women on park benches gossiping and enjoying the morning. Merlin tells himself that he’s okay, that the people glancing curiously at them as they pass aren’t looking closely. They can’t tell that he’s dead. No, it’s the much younger woman on his arm that’s drawing their attention.

He almost convinces himself that’s true.

A little girl looks up from feeding the ducks as they pass, forgotten crust of bread falling from her hand as her eyes go wide, staring at Roxy. Roxy grins at her, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue. The little girl squeals, and her mother notices them and drags her daughter away.

“Why’d you do that?” Merlin mutters.

“People need to learn that we’re not going away. If children get used to seeing people like us, they’ll learn that we’re a normal part of life,” Roxy explains.

Merlin is about to respond when he notices a man watching them with narrowed eyes, his nose wrinkled in undeniable disgust. They’re not far from him, maybe a few meters. Roxy follows his gaze, looking around and making eye contact with the man before stalking over, dragging Merlin with her. “Do you have a problem?” she asks. It’s a bit too polite to be a demand, but there’s an undeniable sharpness to it.

The man looks a bit startled by the confrontation, but when he responds he doesn’t address her, but Merlin instead, “You shacking up with a fucking rotter?”

Merlin stiffens a bit at the slur, but it’s nothing compared to Roxy, who turns downright vicious. Her voice drips daggers when she says, “What did you just call me?”

He turns to look at her, sneering. “I called you a rotter. You and the necrophile have a problem with that?”

Merlin has had plenty of practice being on the receiving end of slurs, so he doesn’t flinch. It’s one thing when he uses them, self-deprecating or otherwise, because it’s him, his own head. It’s another thing to hear it from someone else. He has three options: correct him and be outed, not correct him but defend Roxy, or say nothing at all.

He opts for the third option less out of choice and more because Roxy beats him to the punch, snarling, “First of all, he and I are not together, and that that would be your first assumption makes me wonder if your issue with that sort of relationship stems from something on your end, not mine. Second of all, I am a human being, and I don’t appreciate you treating me as if I’m not.” She doesn’t mention that Merlin is also not actually alive, human being or otherwise, and he appreciates that. Instead, she says, “Apologize to us right now, please.” For all the words are pleasant, they’re laced with enough poison to kill an elephant.

The man stares, dumbfounded. He hesitates, clearly sizing up Merlin and determining if he can take him or not, although between the two of them, he really should worry more about Roxy, who, despite being over 30 centimetres shorter and a great deal lighter, is the better fighter and also spitting mad. He must, accurately, decide he can’t because he scoffs and says, “Go to hell. Rotter.” He stalks off.

Roxy looks like she wants to lunge after him, but Merlin puts a hand on her shoulder. “Let it go,” he murmurs.

She huffs, “I hate people like him. As if I didn’t get enough shit before.”

Merlin knows, both from stories Alistair has told and actually knowing her as a child, that Roxy has been fighting against bullies from practically day one. Her school record is littered with reports of fights, but Roxy has always insisted that every single one of them was a battle that needed to be fought. He saw first-hand the sexism of the other Kingsman candidates, underestimating Roxy from the get-go and laughing at the idea that a woman could become Lancelot over the eight men. She knows homophobia almost as well as he does, not just because of her adopted family (two pairs of married men) but because of her own sexuality. She’s no stranger to discrimination any more than Merlin is, and he wishes he could console her, but the fact of the matter is that this is the way the world works, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“If you want to go around without coverup, you’re going to have to get used to it,” he says softly.

Roxy deflates, leaning against his side like she had as a child, seeking comfort. “I know,” she says. “I just wish I didn’t have to. We shouldn’t have to hide who we are.”

For Merlin, hiding who he is was a way of life, perfected to an art form before Harry had cheerfully swept into his life and shattered all his walls. He doesn’t have a good answer, so he hugs her again instead.

Eventually, Roxy pulls away and says, “Why don’t we go see Harry? I’m sure he’d like proof I got you out of the house, and I bet you’ll enjoy seeing the new shop. Alistair took me yesterday. It looks amazing.”

Merlin lets her lead the way, ignoring the probably-imagined whispers trailing behind them.

Savile Row is…not that different. Merlin isn’t sure what he expected, but there are absolutely no signs of the Rising here. It’s just business as usual. He smiles when he catches sight of the Kingsman logo on the window display.

Roxy catches him looking and says, “I had the same look on my face when I saw it too. It’s like coming home, isn’t it?” She yanks open the shop door, and the bell jingles as she strolls in.

Merlin follows her, and Bridgemont looks up from the desk and smiles politely at them, “Ms. Morton. Mr. Hart. Pleasure to see the both of you.”

Merlin returns the smile, but he doesn’t respond. He’s too busy looking around the shop, taking in all the differences since the reconstruction. The blueprints must have survived, because the layout is almost precisely the same, giving Merlin that peculiar feeling that he’s walked into a familiar room where everything has been moved an inch to the left (which had actually happened to his house once, courtesy of a prank from James nearly ten years ago). He runs his fingers over one of the display benches. As Roxy said, this, more so than the new house with Harry, feels like coming home.

Alistair pokes his head out from the back door, “Roxy?”

“Is Harry around?”

“He’s upstairs,” Alistair tells her. He opens the door fully and gestures for them to come in.

Harry is spread out in the dining room. Eggsy is to his left, and they’re both pouring over a mess of paperwork.

“I thought we went digital over a decade ago,” Merlin says.

Mentor and protege look up together, Harry’s expression morphing to one of delight even as he teases back, “Well, _someone_ withheld the information as to programming the system, so we didn’t exactly have a way to rebuild it properly.”

“My system was highly advanced. I’m not sure you’d be able to install it even if I left instructions. Besides, there are levels of clearance for a reason.” To be fair, the biggest reason had been dealing with traitors and leaked information, which had proven to be moot when it was someone like Arthur who betrayed them. If Merlin is allowed back into Kingsman, a reorganization of the hierarchy will be his first suggestion.

“Sure,” Eggsy says, in answer to Merlin’s point, “but that means that if Merlin goes and we don’t have a replacement, we revert back to the dark ages.”

Harry neatens his stack and stands, coming over to give Merlin a peck on the lips. “I see Roxy managed to convince you to leave your cave.”

“Aye. Something about disappointing you didn’t sit well with me,” Merlin says.

Harry’s smile softens, his eyes warm enough to melt ice cubes, and Harry takes his hands and squeezes. “I’m glad,” he murmurs. “I think it will be good for you to get out more. You can’t stay locked away forever.”

He never intended to stay locked away _forever_. Just long enough that some of the tension between the living and PDS sufferers died down a bit. “Maybe I could come back to work,” he suggests.

“If you think you’re up for it, we can discuss that tonight,” Harry says. “I’m afraid we’re a bit heavy on the logistics and light on the missions at the moment. Statesman helps where they can, but given that we’re sending more missions their way, seeing as they are better staffed than we are, they aren’t much help in terms of rebuilding. We’re just now getting to repairing all the physical damage.”

“With approved discreet crews, I assume?”

“Naturally,” Harry says. He looks regretfully back at his paperwork, “I really do need to get back to work, darling. We’ll talk about you coming back when I get home, alright?”

“Alright,” Merlin agrees. Harry gives him one last kiss, careful not to smear Merlin’s coverup (he’s gotten very good at that in the last few weeks), and then sits back down. Eggsy jerks his chin in acknowledgement and then returns to work as well.

Roxy takes Merlin’s arm again, and they head out in the direction of home.

***

“Darling?” Harry calls into the house, closing the front door behind him.

He peers into the kitchen, then the living room, but Merlin isn’t downstairs at all. He eventually finds him holed up in Harry’s office, Harry’s laptop open on the desk. A brief shot of panic goes through Harry’s chest, wondering if he deleted his search history, but given that Merlin doesn’t look utterly horrified, he figures he’s safe. He leans against the doorframe, “There you are. Why are you hiding up here?”

Merlin looks up. “I’m not hiding.”

Harry circles around the desk. He doesn’t ask how Merlin managed to figure out the password, because Merlin is, after all, an expert with computers, and more than that, he knows Harry. “What are you up to?”

Merlin leans back and allows him to look. “I’m reworking the system, retrieving the old files. The information is all there. It just needs to be retrieved.”

Harry rests a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, stroking his thumb over the soft material of his jumper. “Are you at a good stopping point?”

“I can be.”

“Good.” Harry puts his hand on the laptop and, when Merlin doesn’t snipe at him about losing unsaved work, closes the lid. He sits on the corner of the desk, “I think we should talk about you coming back to Kingsman now.”

“I understand if you don’t think it’s a good idea-“

“Oh, no, I think it’s a marvellous idea,” Harry says. Merlin tilts his head, and Harry explains, “You’ve kept yourself cooped up in here and moping. I think coming back to work could help get your mind off things. Not to mention, there’s an awful lot to do and not only are we short-staffed, but the staff we do have is remarkably ill-equipped to handle a good deal of what needs to be done. The position of Merlin exists for a reason, after all.” Arthur may be the official king in Kingsman, but the wizard is the real power behind the throne, and any agent worth their salt knows it.

“You really want me back?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’m-“

“If you say dead,” Harry interrupts, “I’m going to be very cross.”

Merlin closes his mouth, and Harry sighs. “Your sort of talent doesn’t just grow on trees, darling. We need your skills.” He hesitates, hating himself for the words that are about to come out of his mouth, “I’ll let you back on the condition that you see someone about this.”

“This being?”

“You’re obviously having problems coming to terms with the fact that you’re…”

“Dead?”

“A PDS sufferer,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “Yes, you’re dead, alright? But you aren’t _just_ dead. Not completely. I love you, darling, but you’re letting this completely run your life, and I’m not going to approve of you coming back to Kingsman until you talk to someone about it.”

Merlin’s face darkens, “You just said you need me.”

“We do. I do. But we’ll manage without you, and I’m not going to change my mind on this.” He hates ultimatums and he knows Merlin does too, the idea of someone else giving ‘options’ with the intent to dictate his life choices a familiar game with no winners that both of them had grown up playing with their parents. But he doesn’t see any other option.

Merlin studies his face, and then seems to collapse in on himself. “Who the fuck am I supposed to talk to about this?”

“I did some research and found the numbers for several different therapists qualified to handle this sort of thing.”

“Oh, they’re training therapists to deal with corpses now, are they?”

Harry recoils at the word. There’s venom in Merlin’s voice, but it’s not directed at Harry. “This is what I mean,” Harry says softly. “Darling, I remember what you were like when we first got together. You hated yourself for being gay, for wanting me. This is like that.”

“There is a big difference between loving men and being dead.”

“Is there?” Harry raises his eyebrows. “True, one is a medical condition and the other is a matter of birth, but beyond that I really don’t see much of a difference.”

Merlin looks like he’s struggling to find the right words. “It’s not natural,” he says eventually. “Rising from the dead? There’s nothing normal about it.”

“That’s what you said about being gay.”

“You don’t get it, Harry. You can’t possibly understand what this feels like.”

“You’re right,” Harry says. “I can’t. And I’m certainly never going to if you don’t help me understand.” He takes one of Merlin’s hands between his own, “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, darling. But you need to talk to someone. It’s not healthy, bottling up your feelings like this.”

“Old habits die hard,” Merlin quips. Harry fights a laugh, and Merlin smiles. “I don’t want to talk to a therapist,” he says. “I don’t…I’ve never liked them.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I can talk to you either.” Merlin sighs. “Let me think about it, please?”

“I’m not letting-“

“Not letting me come back to Kingsman, I know,” Merlin says, but he doesn’t sound angry. Just exhausted. “I don’t like it, but I understand why you’re saying it.”

Harry brings Merlin’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the knuckles. “I don’t like making you do this, but I really think it will help.”

“I know you do,” Merlin says. He huffs a laugh, “I fucking hate you sometimes, you know that? Having my best interests at heart is so fucking annoying.”

“I’m terribly sorry for caring about you.” Harry says. Then, because it hurts to say it even sarcastically, he corrects himself, “Actually, I’m not. I’ll never be sorry for loving you.”

“I’ll never be sorry for loving you either,” Merlin says. “I fought damn hard to be able to have that.”

“Yes, you did,” Harry says. He kisses Merlin’s hand again, “And I couldn’t be prouder of you for it.”

***

Merlin swallows hard. But he lifts his chin and steps into Harry’s bedroom. His husband looks up, halfway ready for bed, pyjama trousers on but shirtless, and Merlin’s mind automatically catalogues ever scar. There are new ones, ones he doesn’t recognize, and while Merlin hopes they’re from Poppy and her minions, he knows the more likely source.

Harry isn’t wearing his glasses or eyepatch, blinking nervously at Merlin with his one good eye, twisted to the side on instinct as if to hide it. Merlin takes another step into the room and offers out the sleep mask to his husband.

Harry doesn’t take it, but his eye does flick down to it before going back to Merlin’s face. “What’s this?”

“Call it a compromise,” Merlin says.

Harry lifts his eyebrows, but accepts the mask when Merlin nudges it towards him again. Merlin explains, “I’m not…I’m not going to be comfortable with everything right away, but I thought this might be a step in the right direction.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t like this idea of you seeing me without…you know. But I trust you. So if you wear the mask, I’ll sleep in the same bed as you.” He’s still not entirely comfortable with the idea, but he doesn’t want to stay stuck like this. Harry had made a valid point; Merlin has gotten past this sort of fear before. His initial reluctance to share a bed with Harry when they weren’t having sex, because it was one thing to be sexually attracted to a man and quite another to love one, comes to mind. He can overcome that sort of fear again. It’s not talking, but it’s something.

Harry toys with the mask, pleased smile tugging at his lips. “That sounds fair.” He sets it on the bed and reaches for his shirt, pulling it on. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

Merlin takes a bit longer than usual stripping the coverup from his face. He leaves the contacts until the last minute, the blue not entirely unattractive against his pale skin, and even that thought feels like a monumental improvement. He debates leaving them in overnight – Harry won’t be able to tell – but he’s trusting Harry, so he owes it to live up to Harry’s trust in return. The contacts aren’t meant to be worn all the time, and Harry wouldn’t want him to risk hurting himself.

There’s a quiet knock on the bathroom door, and Harry murmurs, “I’m going to bed now. Come in whenever you’re ready.”

Merlin gives it a minute, waiting until the footsteps disappear back down the hall, before he carefully removes the contacts. He takes a breath, steeling himself, and then opens the bathroom door. The hallway is empty, but it feels longer than usual. Each step spans a canyon, so by the time Merlin gets to the bedroom it feels like he’s aged years.

The lights are off. Harry is a lump under the covers on the right side of the bed, the empty space next to him a clear sign. Merlin climbs in on the other side, tucking himself under the blankets next to Harry. He reaches up, snapping the band on the sleeping mask gently.

Harry shifts, “I thought you trusted me?”

“I do,” Merlin murmurs. “I just wanted to make sure.”

Harry shifts backwards until his back is pressed up against Merlin’s front, searching back with his hand until he finds Merlin’s arm, drawing it around his waist. He chuckles.

“What?”

“Sharing a bed with you used to be a pain. You gave off heat like a radiator. Now you’re the perfect temperature.”

Merlin blinks. He knows Harry doesn’t mind touching his cold skin, but for Harry to refer to it as a benefit is a bit surprising. He settles, closing his eyes, and then says, “I apologize if I wake you up. I still have nightmares sometimes.”

“So do I,” Harry murmurs. “Hopefully we’ll both sleep better tonight.”

Nightmares are not new to either of them, and they’ve always been easiest to deal with together. Merlin says nothing, just holds Harry a little closer, and falls asleep.

***

Harry wakes well-rested for the first time in…oh, probably a few years. He blinks open his eye and is met with complete darkness. Then he remembers. The weight of Merlin is still plastered to his back, his husband warm where they’re joined, drawing on Harry’s body heat, and the sleep mask has shifted slightly during the night but is still covering his good eye. He’s severely tempted to remove it and turn over, getting his first look at his husband’s face without all the nasty makeup he hides behind. But Merlin has trusted him, so Harry doesn’t remove the mask. He does turn over, though, twisting in Merlin’s embrace, and feels his husband stir in response. He traces up Merlin’s arm, past his shoulder and over his chin until he finds his lips, his fingers smoothing over them briefly before he leans in and gives him a kiss, pleased at not having to taste coverup. He scoots a little closer, throwing one leg over Merlin’s so he can keep as close as possible, and smiles into the kiss.

Merlin pulls back slightly, his voice thick with sleep when he asks, “What are you doing?”

“Kissing my husband,” Harry purrs.

“I can see that,” Merlin says. He gently puts his hand on Harry’s leg, sliding it off him. “Harry-“

“I’m not suggesting we have sex, darling,” Harry says. “Well,” he adds, “not unless you’re interested, but given your reaction I’m guessing that’s still off the table. I just want to kiss you a bit. Please?”

Merlin relents, pulling Harry back to him, and allows Harry to wrap around him like an octopus, a leg over his waist, a hand curled around the back of his neck. Harry kisses him again, deepening it as he licks past Merlin’s lips, his husband shuddering in the way he always does from Harry’s kisses. Merlin’s fingers are hesitant as they thread through Harry’s hair, but Harry leans into the touch even as he keeps kissing him, and Merlin’s hands become more confident, the one in his hair gripping harder, the other wrapping around Harry’s back to keep him close. It should be disconcerting. Merlin’s skin is hardly above room temperature, his mouth cold. He doesn’t have a pulse, no beating heart under Harry’s hands. Even as Harry’s body slowly begins to respond, waking with interest as he clings to his husband, he can tell Merlin isn’t reacting the same way. Lack of blood flow, and all that.

It should bother him, but it doesn’t. Because it’s still Merlin, still the man he’s loved for three decades.

Merlin is the one who hesitates, who pulls away again when he feels Harry’s growing erection rubbing against his hip. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says softly, uncertainly.

“Why not?” Harry desperately wishes he could see Merlin’s face, but he settles for stroking a hand gently over his cheek. “We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

“I’m dead, Harry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Partially deceased, whatever,” Merlin says. “I can’t…and it’s weird…”

“How is it weird?”

“You want to fuck a corpse, Harry.”

Harry jerks back, pulling entirely away from Merlin and sitting up. He reaches for the sleeping mask, intending to take it off, but he hesitates and then turns his back on Merlin because he’s not going to break their agreement, but he also can’t have this conversation wearing a stupid mask. He pulls it off and says sharply, “Nothing about that statement is correct.”

Something in his voice must keep Merlin silent, because after a few beats with no protest from his husband, Harry continues, “You are not a fucking corpse. Do you understand? Maybe you’re not alive, but you aren’t dead either, and I really don’t understand why you can’t seem to realize that. And I’m _sorry_ that I might have an interest in having sex with my husband. Because that’s what this is, darling. It has absolutely nothing to do with your condition. I even said, _nothing has to happen_. I understand that you’re not comfortable, that you might not want to have sex yet. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to want it. I don’t expect anything from you except to tell me where your boundaries are, but I do need you to stop thinking as if you’re still dead, because you aren’t.”

Merlin remains silent, and Harry can’t take it anymore. He turns to look at Merlin, who jerks and ducks his head, “Christ, Harry.”

Harry immediately feels guilty and looks away again, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Then he feels Merlin’s hand on his shoulder, nudging him gently, turning him. He looks back at his husband, who looks nervous. Harry smiles, bringing his hand to cup Merlin’s cheek. Merlin turns away from it and studies the bedspread. “I know,” he says. “I know I’m not dead, not really. But sometimes it’s hard not to think like that. I _look_ dead. I’m not…I don’t look the same.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Harry says softly. “You look exactly the same. My beautiful, pasty-faced Scotsman who hasn’t seen the sun in days.” He guides Merlin’s chin up so that Merlin has to look at him. “My beautiful husband with his gorgeous eyes.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I do not give false compliments, darling. You are beautiful to me.”

Merlin all but falls into Harry’s arms, and Harry pulls him close. “This isn’t working,” Merlin says softly. “I’ve tried coping in my way. I suppose…I suppose I could try coping in yours.”

“Whatever you decide, I’ll be here for you.”

***

“What do you mean we can’t get married?” Harry demands. Merlin shifts uncomfortably. The therapy has been helping, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. He’s not as comfortable as Roxy is without the contacts and the coverup, but he’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t completely panic when he ventures out without it. Although it doesn’t help when Harry makes a scene.

“I have been in love with this man for over thirty years,” Harry says, pointing at Merlin even as he gets in the clerk’s face. “I married him years ago, back when this country was still too cowardly to let me do it legally, and now I want to marry him again, properly, and you’re telling me that I can’t?”

The clerk glances back and forth between them, looking very much like he regrets the choices he has made with his life. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Legally speaking, Hamish Grey is dead. You can’t marry a dead person.”

“You’re telling me that even with everything the country has been through these past few years, no one stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, someone might actually want to marry a PDS sufferer? That long-term couples who had been split apart by death would want to actually get married once they were brought back together?”

“Harry,” Merlin says softly, all too aware of the fact that everyone in the waiting room is staring at them.

Harry pauses, taking a good look at Merlin’s face, and then backs down. “You’re a bunch of bigoted idiots,” Harry tells the man behind the counter. “Come along, darling.” He takes Merlin’s hand, and strides towards the door.

“Necrophile,” someone coughs.

Before Merlin can stop him, Harry whirls around, “Who said that?”

Harry’s expression is positively murderous, which is probably why no one speaks up. Merlin gives Harry’s hand a little tug, “We should go.”

“In a moment,” Harry says. He addresses the room, “I spent most of my life being called all manner of slurs because I fell in love with a man. I will _not_ tolerate listening to any more because he happens to have a medical condition that he cannot help. So next time, I’d suggest saying it to my face, so I can explain to you precisely why that sort of language is not okay.”

Merlin has no idea how Harry manages to make it sound like such a threat, but he thinks he’s a little more in love with him than usual for it. Harry turns on his heel, and says to him, “Terribly sorry for that, darling. Now we can go.”

Outside on the pavement, Merlin drags Harry in for a passionate kiss. It catches his husband off guard, but when he regains his footing Harry throws his arms around Merlin’s neck and kisses back with fervour, Merlin’s lips tingling with the effort he puts into it.

When they break apart, Merlin leans his forehead against Harry’s. “I love you so much.”

“You don’t think I went a bit overboard in there?” Harry looks sheepish.

“Maybe a bit,” Merlin admits, but he’s smiling anyway.

Harry smiles too, and kisses Merlin again. When they finally pull apart and head back in the direction of home, Merlin doesn’t even care that people are watching. Maybe it’s not the happy ending he’d hoped for, but things could be a lot worse.

Which is, of course, when he starts noticing the symptoms.

***

“You’re home late,” Harry remarks loudly when he hears the front door open. “I thought your therapy ended at six?” He’s in the kitchen, making dinner, and he hears the door shut, then feels Merlin’s hands on his hips, his husband leaning around to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I had to run an errand after,” Merlin explains.

“What sort of errand?”

“Just checking my neurotriptaline prescription.” Merlin moves away again, and Harry glances over his shoulder, frowning.

“Is something wrong with the current dose?”

For a split second, Harry recognizes the look that crosses Merlin’s face as the one he gets when he’s about to lie. It’s subtle enough that most people can’t tell, but most people haven’t known Merlin as long or as intimately as Harry has. He braces for the lie, but then Merlin’s expression shifts and he sits down at the table, sighing. “I’m not sure,” he says softly. “I…I started noticing the signs a couple of days ago.”

“Signs?”

Merlin holds up his hand. There’s a slight tremor in it, the sort Harry’s seen occasionally on agents who’ve suffered an injury or a trauma. He clenches his fist, bringing it back down again. “That, on and off. And I’ve started feeling…”

“Feeling what?”

Merlin looks incredulous and suddenly Harry feels very stupid. “ _Feeling_ ,” Merlin says. “Christ, I feel _hungry_. I feel cold.” He looks caught between embarrassed, confused, and frightened, “Last night…your hands…”

Harry flushes slightly. Last night had been interesting, to say the least. Merlin is still a little skittish about sex, not that Harry blames him, but last night he’d let Harry touch him. It’d been experimental, and it hadn’t actually come to anything, no pun intended, for either of them, but it’d been nice to run his hands all over Merlin again, retracing each scar and freckle on his husband’s skin. “You felt that. Properly, I mean.”

“Maybe?” Merlin says. “I think so.” He looks down at his hands and swallows hard, then meets Harry’s eyes. “I’m scared, Harry. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Harry sets down the spoon and turns the burner off, and then comes over to sit next to Merlin. “You think you’re going rabid?”

“I don’t know. If the medication isn’t really affecting me anymore…”

“Have you considered the possibility that maybe you’re…I don’t know, thawing out? Coming back to life?”

Merlin stares at him, “Is that even possible?”

Harry shrugs, “Until a few years ago, I would have said the dead rising was impossible. Now, there’s not much I’m willing to discount altogether.”

Merlin hesitates, and then says, “I really, really want you to be right, Harry. But if you’re not…if this is me going rabid…”

Harry shudders at the idea, but he knows what’s implied in Merlin’s tone. “Are you asking me?”

“I know you did what you had to during the Rising,” Merlin says, his tone deadly serious.

“So did you,” Harry says weakly. They don’t talk about this.

Merlin ignores him, “I’m asking, if it comes down to it, that you do what you have to again.”

Harry blinks quickly, fighting back the idea of tears prickling at his eyelids. “I don’t want to do that,” he says.

“I’m not asking if you want to, Harry, and I’m not going to force you. But if you think you can’t do it, then I’m going to call Eggsy and Alistair, because one of them might be able to.”

“No.” Harry takes a deep breath. “No. If it comes down to that…I’ll do it.”

Merlin squeezes his hand. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Not for this.” Harry thinks he’s going to be sick.

Merlin looks guilty, and for his sake, Harry shakes the feeling away. He smiles gently, “Let me finish up dinner, and then we can watch some television before bed.”

“Sounds good,” Merlin says.

Neither of them sound enthusiastic. The fake cheerfulness in their voices grates on Harry’s ears.

***

Merlin wakes up uncomfortable. He squirms, pushing the blanket off him and sliding away from Harry. He feels too warm all over, heat thrumming through his veins.

He freezes. He’s warm. That’s not right. He blinks his eyes open slowly and sits up, examining his hands. His skin is pale, but then, it always has been, and they greyish tint is less severe than usual. He presses two fingers carefully to the inside of his wrist, and yanks them away when he feels the gentle beating beneath the skin.

Merlin practically leaps out of bed. It’s enough to startle Harry into wakefulness, his husband calling after him, “Merlin? Darling, what’s going on?” Merlin ignores him and makes a beeline for the bathroom.

He pauses before he looks in the mirror, gripping the sink tightly, squeezing his eyes shut.

Harry comes up behind him, wrapping careful arms around his waist. “Everything alright?”

“I have a pulse.”

Harry stiffens in surprise, then nuzzles into the crook of his neck. He finds Merlin’s pulse point, pressing his lips to it. “Mmm,” he hums, and Merlin feels his lips curling into a smile. “Yes, you do.”

Slowly, afraid that this is all a dream, Merlin opens his eyes and lifts his head. His reflection looks back at him, blue-grey eyes fearful and hopeful at the same time. Harry’s reflection smiles and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says.

Merlin laughs. It bubbles up in his throat and he can’t contain it. He laughs, and Harry smiles, and he turns in his husband’s grip and kisses him because he’s _alive_.

There will be things to worry about. If something is bringing Merlin back from his undeath into proper life, is whatever fixed his legs going to fade away? Is it the drugs that have done this to him? Is he the only one? And what happens when people start to find out the PDS sufferers can be cured?

But those are all questions, worrying as they are, that can wait. Because right now, Merlin has his arms wrapped around the love of his life (and undeath and life again), and he’s never felt more alive.


End file.
